


Indian Summer

by lamardeuse



Series: Indian Summer [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doggett and Reyes take over the X-Files and find they have a special gift in common, one which Doggett is reluctant to recognize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indian Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings in end notes.

Prologue  


 

"You wanna shake my hand, darlin'? I thought we already met."

"I want your keys, not your hand."

"They're in my pocket. Come 'n get 'em."

"You don't want me to do that."

"Sure I do. Now c'mon...that's it....OW!!!"  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
 

I have a theory.

Wait, before you jump, legitimately mind you, to conclusions, let me say that it isn't that kind of theory. No grey aliens or conspiracies here. This theory is much more mundane, but still near to my heart. I call it the Theory of Elfin Women.

It may sound like one of those low-budget videos or a cutesy comedy with Ashley Judd, but it's quite scientific, developed over years of observation and direct experience. I've seen it in operation many a time, along with its corollary, the Theory of Regular-Sized, Boring Women With No Particular Mystery.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Elfin Women, as you can surmise by their appellation, tend to be petite physically, the perfect girl sized girl for man sized men. They are not necessarily gorgeous or helpless or in any way hampered by those Victorian ideals of womanhood themselves, but for some strange reason they tend to inspire those feelings in the men surrounding them. Civilized men become Neandertals and frog princes Lancelots around these women, bringing out all the caveman and chivalric impulses of the male of the species and rolling it up in one big rollicking, tongue-wagging bundle.

I can't even count the number of times I've seen teams of opposite-sex partners in the FBI or the local PDs with this sort of dynamic. The man always has a physicality you'd never see him display with a woman nearer his size. He's always guiding her, aware of her. He's got his hand in the small of her back as if she stays upright only through his suffrance or touches her shoulder to draw her attention to something rather than actually communicating by speaking like most humans who were not raised by wolves might do. And 100% of the time, without fail, the woman is tiny, dwarfed by him.

I'm not saying there's something sinister or consciously sexist in the men's behaviour; on the contrary, I don't think the poor so-and-sos are even aware of what they're doing. There's something in the sex differential that just screams out to his reptilian brain, protect this female. Don't think about it, just do it. Be her rock, her blanket, hard and soft all at the same time, drape your big ol' body around her until she couldn't get out even if she wanted to, until she just subsumes into you like an appendage.

I sound like I'm bitter. I know. I never used to be. It was always more the scientific observation of an outsider, a woman possessed of slightly above-average height who will never be swept into her partner's arms even if she is shot or otherwise hurt. I could bleed out through my femoral artery on the sidewalk and no man would risk his sciatic nerve to so much as elevate the leg. I'd made my peace with my admittedly lanky frame a long time ago; I liked being able to keep pace with the fastest-striding sexist beat cop, liked being the one who could run down the bad guy. The level of comfort I've always had in my skin is quite high, and at the risk of sounding like a self-help tape, I like me. Still do.

But yesterday when the High Priestess of the Elfin Women Dana Scully walked back into her old office and I saw my partner's eyes light up like beady little blue novas...well, that was...

But I get ahead of myself again.

I met John Doggett five years ago, when he was still with the NYPD. He worked on his first X-File then, but he wasn't aware of it. You can hardly blame him, because considering the case involved the disappearance of his son, he wasn't aware of much of anything, some days not even his own name, I imagine. I remembered him as a driven, haggard man, intensely focused on a goal he knew in some private hell he was never going to reach. When I encountered him again last year in the search for Fox Mulder, I registered for the first time that he was also quite nice to look at, in his way. I'd just broken up with my lover of three years, a drop-dead beautiful man who I should have known wasn't mine to keep forever – his kind are never anyone's to keep – and I felt as though I was squinting in the sunlight after being in a long tunnel. Doggett's ice-blue eyes and honest Irish-American features have never been my style, to tell the truth; I've always gone for the more exotic types. His face is a little too Bing-Crosby-gone-wrong for my taste, although he is built like a brick shebeen and the ears that yearn to fly free from his skull are strangely endearing, a little-boy touch on an unquestionably grown-up man. I did my job and enjoyed the view at the same time, along with the view at the construction sites and the coffee shop and the gym.

Then a few months after that Mulder is back from the dead – yes, I say this almost mundanely, but walk a mile in my shoes and you'll be blasé too – and I make a visit to D.C. to open up Doggett's still-bleeding heart. The case I was investigating at the time was tied to the murder of his son, and I pulled him into it without a thought to his pain. No, actually that's not true; I acknowledged that it was there but I reasoned there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it. I became involved in the paranormal because I knew from the time I had conscious thought that there were forces afoot in the world that others could not see but that I could. There was no choice for me; the gift, for want of a less pretentious term, chose me. And when I encountered people, like Doggett, who refused that gift when so few had it, I turned off my sympathy, became hard and unforgiving. I forget we all have the same failings, that there's nothing invulnerable in my makeup either. There is a choice made – to fight with the tools you have or to lay them down, and who was I, who had never known the feel of her own child lifeless in her arms, to pass judgment on his decision?

At any rate, the case was something of a turning point for me. The tortured face of John Doggett stared back at me, hovering behind my closed eyelids as I tried to sleep for weeks afterwards. He had gotten past the walls I had so carefully erected to block out the noisy emotions of the world, and I was struck by the irony of it. I had joined the FBI to make some use of my talents, to help and to protect, and my own fears had been working against me all this time, diluting those same talents until I couldn't even connect with another human being on a level of simple empathy. It would have been funny if it hadn't been such a punch in the solar plexus.

So when I was shanghaied – I can't say transferred because it was unlike any transfer I'd ever had –  to Washington last month to work as Doggett's partner on the X-Files, let's say I had some mixed emotions about the prospect of working with him. He'd caused me to rethink my entire world view and take a good hard look at myself in the bargain. To top it all off, during one of the more horny episodes in my post-pubescent life his ass had been the focus of a good deal of ogling. By contrast, he barely knew I was on the planet. Such disparity makes it a little difficult for one to think up casual topics of conversation over morning coffee in the office.  


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
 

"Hey."

"Hey what?" I glanced over at him as I maneuvered his pickup through the streets of Alexandria to see him studying me much as an entomologist might a new species of bug. I wasn't entirely confident that the directions he had given me were reliable, but what else did I have to do on a Friday night at 11:30 but drive aimlessly through an unfamiliar city?

"You're pretty."

I jolted to a stop as the yellow light in front of us turned to red and barked a laugh at him. "That's an adjective I don't get a lot. Don't you mean to say 'statuesque' or 'willowy'?"

"Couldn't pronounce either of those right now. Sorry. Besides, I like my word better." He flashed a sheepish grin, and ridiculously I stifled a gasp. Even dimmed by copious quantities of alcohol, his smiles should have required a permit. Of course, it didn't help that it was the first one he had directed my way.

The light turned green and I cleared my throat. "Right or left?"

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

   
 

 

She clicked in on her high heels, although maternity leave had caused her to shed her professional suits in favour of more casual jeans and soft chambray shirt. From the moment she walked in, I recognized her natural ownership of the place. Doggett still hadn't seemed comfortable at his own – scratch that, Mulder's desk – since I first took over as his partner, but she suffused the air with energy. And damn it all if Doggett didn't spontaneously combust with it.

Since Mulder was something of a legend in the realm of the paranormal in which I trod, I had of course heard of Scully long before I met her. She was his skeptical but nonetheless good right arm in the murky search for truth, and while the other fibbers I knew in DC thought they were both nuts, they were highly regarded in my circle. After our first meeting, she became the shining example of the Elfin Woman; without rancour, I conceded that she had the presence to make men into malleable beings, shaping them to her specifications without even realizing she had done so.

After about a minute in Scully's presence the partner I had assumed was carved out of stone was a puddle on the floor, and I knew exactly what had happened. All these weeks I had assumed he still harboured a grudge against me from our last encounter; he hadn't been rude but he had been distant, reserved. Not really knowing him personally, I wasn't sure what conclusions to draw from it, but one look at the positively goofy grin on his face as they exchanged pleasantries said it all.

The poor so-and-so was so besotted with the personification of the unattainable ideal standing in front of him that he couldn't even see straight. And her leaving had put him in a dour mood of which I was the prime recipient. I was tempted to tap him on the shoulder and discreetly scream that this woman was Mulder's, always had been and always would be. The depth and complexity of her feeling for him had breached my barriers and drowned out the emotional noise of every other person, myself included, when we first met. I had no idea whether or not they were lovers; I'd seen that kind of connection before between family members or married couples, but it's unlikely in mere coworkers, even in our line of work. Whatever their relationship, it was clear to me from the start that whether or not Mulder was ever found, their bond extended beyond the garden variety 'til-death-do-us-part kind.

"So where's William?" Doggett's sandpaper voice broke into my reverie.

"Mulder took him for the afternoon to visit the Gunmen. Have you met them?"

"You might say that. Next time you see 'em, tell 'em Agent Dogbert says 'woof'."

Scully raised an eyebrow and smiled a smile fit for an icon of the Madonna. Her gaze skidded to me, and her expression opened up, shedding its ethereal quality. "It's good to see you again. How are you finding Washington?"

"I'm not looking forward to the winter, but so far so good."

"Agent Doggett tells me it's been pretty quiet here since you started."

"I am eager to get out in the field, but this has been a great opportunity to familiarize myself with some of the old cases."

"Any time you have any questions, I'd love to help." She pulled a card from her purse and reached down to take a pen from Doggett's desk, which she used to scrawl on the back. "Here's my home number." Idly, I wondered if she or Mulder would answer when I called.

"When's the best time to call? You must be up all the time with the baby. I don't want to impose – "

"I am up all the time, so it's no imposition. Who needs sleep?" She smiled again, and I was struck by the fact that she was completely genuine, without guile or artifice to maintain her. No wonder Doggett had fallen for her.

She said her goodbyes to us, and Doggett watched her go, as he no doubt had on many occasions, usually on the metaphorical arm of Mulder. For an instant, I considered lowering my guard to try to read him at this moment; I felt as though I had been seeing this man completely through my own self-serving perspective and I wanted to understand him better on his terms. I quickly trampled the thought, however. Besides being against my personal code of ethics, I reasoned that if he refused to use his gift, I would too, at least where he was concerned.

His gaze turned from the open door to me and flickered over me consideringly, as if he knew about my internal debate. I felt a chill, then a flash of heat I couldn't explain.

"I'm gonna go grab some lunch and bring it back. I want to finish getting this damn place organized the way I want it before the next case is dumped on us. You want anything?"

"No," I mumbled, "I think I'll go out if that's okay. I'd like to see the sun for a little while."

"Yeah." His voice was tight. And then he was gone, leaving me to my churning thoughts.

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

   
 

 

The next day was Friday. I never used to live by the TGIF principle of the modern office worker but after a month in the basement with Doggett it was starting to gain a certain appeal. In the elevator I ran into an old colleague from Atlanta, and he encouraged me to come out after work with some of his buddies to a happy hour at one of the local bars. I've never been much for drinking with the boys. My friends are not generally other agents; I lean instead toward the company of artists, musicians and fellow students of the paranormal, but I agreed this time. It was nice to have a reminder of better times.

When I reached the office that morning, the forlorn look on my partner's face was worse than ever. I had a mixed reaction to this – my maternal instinct kicked into overdrive but I also felt an enormous swell of rage at being put into this untenable situation. If something didn't break soon, we would never be able to work together effectively as a team in the field.

"John, what are you doing this weekend?"

"Thinkin' about the weekend at eight o'clock in the a.m.? This is gonna be a slow day." He meant them as a joke but tossed off as they were without even a glance in my direction his words just made me angrier.

"Okay, I'll try again. What are you doing tonight?"

He actually made eye contact this time, and it was like being hit with a blast wave. He was as pissed off as I was, though not about the same things, I'd wager. "Nothin'," he growled.

"I saw one of the old gang from Atlanta and I'm getting together with him and some of his colleagues for happy hour at O'Manion's. I thought you might want to join me."

His eyes narrowed. He knew my last sentence was about more than just asking him out for a booze-up. "Okay," he murmured finally, returning his attention to the file before him.

That was sixteen hours ago. In between, we growled at each other all day, then we both hopped in Doggett's pickup to head for the bar, since he reasoned he wouldn't be drinking more than a beer or two. The silence in the cab was palpable, but once we got to O'Manion's the untamed roar of newly released white collar types washed over us and filled in the gaping holes in our rapport.

Over by the bar I spotted Bill Harkness, the agent I knew from Atlanta. I restrained myself from breaking into a run to get away from Doggett. Introductions were made, and the last man, a tall, lanky specimen in his mid-forties named Reggie Dwight, obviously knew my partner.

"Johnny, old bean," he grinned, shaking hands warmly with him, "Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"In the basement," retorted Doggett, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"How is Spooky's lair?" This from a man identified as Bill's partner, Agent Jefferson. "Found any bats?" I thought I saw Doggett cringe, but no one else seemed to notice.

"Hey, did you ever – " Agent Dwight swung his arm companionably around Doggett's shoulders and turned, signaling the bartender for a drink and smoothly shielding him from further sophomoric cracks. I was struck that this was clearly a colleague Doggett knew well, yet it would seem that they had lost touch with one another. Had he been cutting himself off from his friends since joining the X-Files? And if he was just a good 'ol boy pressed into service in a cause he did not believe in, why had he not requested a transfer ages ago? Scully alone couldn't be enough reason to risk the ridicule of the Bureau and the possible stagnation, if not ruination, of his career.

Oh hell, she probably could be. I turned to the bar myself and ordered a tequila.

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

   
 

 

"Hey."

"Right back at you."

"This is my house."

"You're sure now. I wouldn't want to go knocking on someone else's door at midnight."

Doggett shook his head vehemently. "Don' need to knock. Nobody home. There's never anybody home."

My stomach plummeted toward my shoes. "Come on, John. Let's get you inside." Slowly, painfully, we began to make our way up the flagstone steps to a gorgeous storey-and-a-half Craftsman house.

I had stopped drinking at the second tequila when I noticed that my designated driver had graduated from Budweiser to bourbon shots. Warily, I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I chatted with Bill. After a few minutes' observation, I was stunned to realize he appeared to be engaged in some sort of whose-is-bigger contest with Jefferson. As they conversed with other members of the group, they idly downed matching quantities of hard liquor.

"Your partner is getting shitfaced." At this comment, I returned my attention to Bill, who was also observing the proceedings, a rueful look on his face.

"Yours, too," I retorted, cocking my eyebrow at him.

Bill avoided my gaze. "Yeah, well, he's never let it affect the job. The first time it does, I'll have to take the next step."

"What if the first time it affects the job you can't take the next step because you took a bullet instead?"

Bill sighed. "Monica, even in today's FBI, the prime commandment is, 'All you women and fags shalt not bitch about thy he-man, G-man partners.'"

"I must've missed that memo. You'd think I would have noticed a stone tablet circulating around the office."

"I don't hear you complaining."

Shaking my head, I watched Doggett knock back another ounce of Jack Daniels. "He's not an alcoholic, Bill. I know the signs. Besides, if he hasn't killed himself outright by now, he isn't going to do it by half-measures."

As we reached the top step, Doggett started chuckling, the sound vibrating the air around us like a VLF transmission. "I don't believe it."

Fumbling and muttering over his keys as I tried to find the one that would gain us entry, I made no direct reply. Finally, I was successful and pushed against the heavy glass-and-wood door. "Voilà," I announced, an arm extending with a flourish to usher him in.

"Ladies first." Staring at him, I complied. It was the first time I had heard that line uttered without sarcasm. Behind me, Doggett flipped a switch and the front foyer and hall were suddenly awash with light. On the left, broad stairs led up to a landing and eventually the second floor; down the hall, a kitchen with low, warm lighting and cherrywood cabinets beckoned. Doggett motioned me toward the living room, which opened up past a large archway on the right. As I walked in, I was struck by the sense of welcoming comfort that oozed from every overstuffed chair and pile of well-thumbed books. It was lived-in without being neglected, masculine without being Spartan. I stood in the middle of the room and watched him turn on the mica and imitation Tiffany lamps which together yielded a muted glow.

Hands on my hips, I switched to safe, matronly efficiency. "I'm going to put some water on for tea. What would you like?"

His task completed, Doggett collapsed into a chair. "Coffee, please. I've got some instant in the cabinet over the sink."

I was relieved to note he was already sounding more coherent. "You've got it," I replied. "Don't pass out."

Doggett's voice followed me down the hall. "Damn, and I was looking forward to that."

Returning a few minutes later with two steaming cups, one with two heaping teaspoons of instant coffee dissolved in it, I found him sitting forward in his chair with his head in his hands, studying the floor. An open copy of Whitman poetry was sitting face down on the table in front of him.

"That bad, huh?"

He raised his head carefully to look at me. "When I close my eyes, the room spins. When I read a book, the room spins. When I stand up, the room spins."

"I'm familiar with the feeling." I handed him the coffee, which he took with a smile. "What don't you believe?"

He stared at me for a moment, then comprehension dawned. His eyes darted as if he was slightly embarrassed to tell me. "Didn't realize I said that out loud. What I was thinkin' was, I don't believe I got myself in a pissing contest."

I sipped my black tea before speaking. "Don't tell me that was your first one."

"The first one since I was a green Marine."

"What made you stop tonight?"

He smiled. Damn it all if I didn't decide right then and there that I liked watching him smile. "I noticed I was losin'."

I hesitated, then decided I wasn't betraying any confidences. "From what Bill told me, it's a good thing you did. You were competing against a pro."

His eyes searched my face, and the earnestness in his expression nearly undid me. "Monica, I don't want you to think this is somethin' I do every Friday – "

"I know, John. Don't – "

"I would quit before I put any partner of mine in that kinda situation. I swear to God – "

"John, I know you're not an alcoholic," I stated firmly, holding my palms out in a quieting gesture. "Believe me, I have had enough experience to spot one fairly easily." I paused. "My brother is a recovering alcoholic. We've been through a lot together."

He nodded seriously, his gaze never leaving my face. I hadn't been the focus of his attention for this long a period of time since we became partners; somewhere, a small part of me was rooting for him never to sober up.

It was that moronic thought that alerted me to my situation. I was starting to fall headlong into those smiling Irish eyes and I didn't like the sensation. Or perhaps I liked it too well. The last thing I needed was to get a dewy-eyed crush on this complicated, wounded man who also happened to be my partner. With new resolve, I told him, "Listen, I should let you get some rest."

"Naw, don't worry about it. I wouldn't be able to sleep until the spinning stopped anyway, and I'd just be sitting here, staring at the wall by myself. It's nice to have company." He paused, then added self-consciously, as if aware his loneliness had just shown itself a little too clearly, "But you must be gettin' tired yourself. You've got a drive ahead of you."

There it was; the perfect excuse, provided for me. But I remained glued to the chesterfield, and no force of will could budge me. "Well, I'm actually still pretty wired," I heard myself lie baldly. "Let me know when the spinning stops and I'll get out of your way."

"Deal." He smiled again, and my mind battled for distance, objectivity, sanity.

"John, why did you want me to work on the X-Files with you?" The question came out in a rush, unexpected by both of us. He didn't answer right away, and the look on his face told me this was probably the first time he'd thought about it. Instantly I felt a sinking sensation in my gut: he hadn't thought about it because there had been no thought involved. I was there and I could be trusted. End of story. Feeling a complete fool, I blurted, "Sorry, you don't have to answer that. Forget it."

He shook his head. "No, it's a fair question. You were dragged into this thing, you deserve to know why."

"I'm not complaining. After all, for someone with my – leanings – it's an ideal position." Another asinine statement. I was batting one oh oh oh.

Sighing heavily, Doggett leaned back in his chair, then seemed to notice the presence of his tie for the first time that night. "I can't believe I'm still wearin' this noose," he muttered, loosening and yanking it off in one smooth, practiced move. He rubbed his eyes, and when he spoke again I could barely hear him.

"I knew where you were, y'know." At my puzzled expression, he elaborated. "When I called you at the airport, told you to come to the Federal Building to take Scully away and keep her safe. I knew you were in D.C." He did not look at me. "Nobody told me you were in town. I just – when I thought of someone to call for help, you came into my mind. *Into* it, d'you understand? Do you understand what I'm sayin'?"

I wasn't sure if I could breathe, but I managed it. "I think so."

"That makes one of us." He smiled, but there was no humour in it. "When you came to try to solve that case of yours from New Orleans, I – goddammit, I was mad at you. Boiling mad. I felt like you were tryin' to dig up my son again – " He trailed off when he heard my breath hitch in my throat, but still did not raise his gaze to mine. In contrast, I couldn't look away from him, even when the tears started to veil his image. After a moment, he continued. "Took me a while to realize I was really mad at myself. Thing is, if I deny that I have this – ability you say I have – then I can keep on believin' I did everything I could to save Luke." His jaw clenched, then released. "But that's the coward's way out. And the things I saw when we were trying to keep Billy Miles from finding Scully...well, I can't keep denyin' what's been staring me right in the face this past year. Whether I believe it all or not, there's stuff out there I can't explain in conventional ways, and if I've got somethin' in me that can start to explain some of it, it's my job to figure out how to use it. And I think you can help me do that."

I willed the tears not to spill from my eyes as he finally looked up to pin me with his gaze. His hand reached out to me and I moved to take it, nodding mutely. The instant his fingers coiled around mine, I felt it; an electrical charge that singed my nerve endings and brought another slight gasp despite my anticipation of it. This man had a gift, and even in its almost completely latent state it had a kind of power that spoke to mine. What would he be capable of if he truly let himself open up to its possibilities?

Finally able to trust my voice, I told him, "I will help you any way I can, John."

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

   
 

  
   
 

I awoke in a strange bed.

Startled by the unfamiliar sensation, I sat bolt upright and took in my surroundings. I was still in my clothes from the night before, although my jacket had been removed and lay folded on a chair across the room. Swinging my legs over the side of the queen-sized mattress, I threw back the coverlet and was just about to stand up when Doggett poked his head in the door to his bedroom.

"Sorry. Forgot socks." This nonsequitur was followed by a sheepish glance toward the floor, which my own gaze followed, though not before taking in his damp, slightly mussed hair, his form-fitting gray t-shirt and his faded jeans. He had obviously just stepped out of the shower, as evidenced by the bare feet which lent an air of vulnerability to his compact, muscular frame. "I was headed down to the corner store to get some milk 'n stuff. I don't have much for breakfast."

"Uh," I managed intelligently, "that's okay. Why don't I take you out to IHOP or someplace? It's the least I can do after the – hospitality." Frantically, my mind tried to recall the rest of the night after our conversation. We had wandered onto discussions of psychic visions and other manifestations of ESP, but after that I had no memory of how I got here.

"I couldn't let you sleep in the guest room. That cot's like iron." He gestured toward the bed. "I changed the sheets before I brought you up here."

I shook my head. "Brought...me?"

He broke eye contact with me and moved toward the tall chest of drawers beside the window. "You were out like a light. Figured you were too tired to drive, and I wasn't in any shape to get you home safe."

"But how did I get up here?"

Socks successfully retrieved, he sat down on the edge of the chair, taking care not to crush my jacket. "I didn't want to wake you, so I carried you."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You – "

"Yeah." He darted a look at me, as if afraid I would be angry. "Don't worry, I didn't, ah – "

"No, no," I stammered, forestalling his awkward words. "I'm sure you didn't. Thanks."

He nodded and stood. "Look, I'll let you get freshened up. Bathroom's through there," he offered, gesturing at a door opposite the bed. And then he was gone. I sat there paralyzed and staring after him for a full minute.

My lovely theories had just been shot to hell.

  
   
   
   


  


Part 1

  
 

I hate waiting by the phone for a man.

I become Sandra Dee with that statement, I know, but for some reason on this Sunday afternoon, as I try to focus on eliminating gargantuan dust bunnies from my apartment, the thought seems appropriate. And since the cleaning tasks I perform, many for the first time since I moved in, are completely mindless, I can't keep my brain from speculating on exactly why John Doggett should make me feel like a bee-hived debutante. I'm not even sleeping with the SOB.

Since that night at his house when Doggett had admitted, at least in theory, the existence of his latent psychic ability, I had begun working with him on his terms and on his schedule. Our sessions were therefore often erratic, not because he was a disorganized person – quite the opposite – but because he was reluctant to explore this side of himself. I tried to be as patient as possible, and let him come to me. But my patience was wearing thin since we hadn't had one of our meetings in over a week now.

I didn't talk with him about it at the office, sensing he wanted to compartmentalize his life into work and "other", and exploring his psi abilities definitely fit into the "other" category in the Doggett universe. I'd managed to convince him to work on the Zener cards found on the Internet – at least he claimed to be following my daily regimen – to help him to hone his skills. For people wishing to develop their ESP, much like people wanting to memorize their multiplication tables, practice was the key, but it was repetitive, often boring, and could take time. The greatest danger, I knew, was that he would fail to see results quickly enough and thus convince himself he had been mistaken, or hallucinating, during his earlier clairvoyant experiences.

I sprayed lemon oil on my oak dining room table and began rubbing it in with a cloth. I only do this Def Con Four level of cleaning about once a year; Susie Homemaker I most definitely am not. Most of the people I entertain at my home aren't the type to worry about the mundanities of lint and floor wax, so my apartment's usual genteel state of decay isn't a problem. Eventually, however, it gets to the point where even I can't stand it any more. For me, the Great Clean doesn't accompany a particular season, as with most people; instead, it surfaces in a period of frustration, whether professional or sexual.

I wondered which this was.

Damn the man for being well-mannered and delicious at the same time. The words "Southern gentleman" for me used to conjure an image of an elderly Colonel Sanders in a white suit and questionable tie, and now they only bring to mind an intense fibber with a steel blue gaze and biceps that can crack walnuts. Worse than a harmless bit of lust, little things he does are beginning to endear him to me, and I'm not the type to be easily endeared to men, let alone children or small dogs. I've watched him in his living room as his eyebrows knit together during a psychometric exercise, or caught him in an unguarded moment as we drove by a playground when the loneliness bled through his facade, and I've repressed an urge to reach out and stroke something on him. And I'm not a stroker. Furthermore, I've never been one to be attracted to someone so clearly opposed to everything I believe in and so emotionally and professionally off-limits, but something about him has gotten under my skin like an army of lice. Not a pleasant allusion, but then it's not a welcome sensation. I don't want to complicate my life further at a time when I'm hitting the most complicated point of my career. Handling the X-Files and everything that goes with it is stressful enough; adding lascivious and ickily sentimental thoughts about my partner are liable to cause my head to spontaneously explode.

Just as I was gathering the chutzpah to grab the phone and give him a piece of my mind for backing out on our sessions, the doorbell rang. Wiping my hands on the cloth, I ambled toward the intercom and punched it. "Who is it?" I enquired tersely.

"It's Doggett," the devil answered. "We got a case. Can I come up?"

I looked down at my threadbare track pants, the t-shirt whose faded letters still proclaimed me the property of the Storyville Athletic Club and Whorehouse, and the bare feet now covered in dust smudges, and imagined similar decorations adorning my face. "Yeah. I can't imagine a better time." My middle finger stabbed the buzzer.

A minute or two later, Doggett arrived at my front door in his weekend uniform of jeans and second-skin gray t-shirt. The heat of the day hadn't fazed him one bit, while with all the physical exertion of washing floors and scrubbing bathroom tile I looked only slightly fresher than Mulder after a few months in the ground. The bastard took in my appearance with a look that under other circumstances would have caused a flush to sprout over my entire pale body, but only caused annoyance this time. He politely refrained from comment, so I felt the need to fill in the silence.

"Spring cleaning."

He nodded. "I gathered."

Well, so much for that conversational gambit. "Can you wait ten minutes?" I demanded, not bothering to wait for a reply as I headed for the bathroom. "Make yourself at home," I tossed over my shoulder. "Kitchen's on your right, living room through there."

After the quickest shower in recorded history I combed my still-damp hair back ruthlessly and threw on a pair of freshly washed jean shorts and sleeveless top. When I reappeared in my living room in just under the specified time, I found Doggett sitting on the couch studying a file he had spread on the coffee table.

"Is it another one?" I asked.

He looked up, belatedly taking in my transformation and pronouncing it good with another sweeping gaze that seemed to linger for an extra second on my legs. "Pretty much," he agreed. Sighing, I flopped down beside him.

While Deputy Director Kersh was under investigation, the bozo they had put above us temporarily was doing nearly as thorough a job of destroying the X-Files as Kersh could have hoped to do. There didn't seem to be a sinister conspiracy behind it, only incompetence. The new guy was used to telling his agents where, how much and how often he could screw them, and he was using his tiny equipment on us with alarming frequency. He culled our cases from the finest tabloid headlines and forced us to follow up on these ludicrous leads over our protests. Two nights ago I had woken up in a cold sweat from a nightmare that could only be described as the Case of the Nine-Hundred Pound Baby. I can't stand to go into more detail than that.

"It's in Virginia, so we don't have to go far, at least. Somewhere near the Wilderness."

I looked at him. "The Civil War battlefield?"

He looked back, his face registering surprise. "You've heard of it?"

"Pretty good for a girl, huh? I minored in American History, sugar." He appraised me a moment longer, then his eyes refocused on the file.

"Well, this one's definitely history. There've been stories 'round there for years about ghosts of soldiers, both sides, marching all over the place. But Friday night somethin' a little different happened."

He dug out a couple of photos from under several pages of typed reports and handed them to me. I studied a b&amp;w of a man lying in a hospital bed, then a closeup of a wound, presumably his. "Tourist went walkin' in the woods near the historic site when he claims he felt his right leg give out from under him. After he hit the ground, he realized he'd been shot."

"Hunting accident?" Even as I said it I knew it couldn't be right. The wound was a mess, the flesh around the entry hole looking like it had been blown out.

"Not likely. He was hit by a Minie ball."

I drew in a breath.

"Yeah," he ground out with a touch of sarcasm. "Put that in your history book and smoke it."

The soft lead Minie ball, named after its designer, a Frenchman named Minié, had been the round of choice in the Civil War. The wound made sense now; a modern high-velocity round would probably have sailed right through his leg without even looking back.

"Let me guess," I ventured. "There's no exit wound."

"You got it. Spent itself inside the leg, shattered the bone then rolled around a lot, tearing up the tendons and muscle. They think they're gonna have to amputate."

"What about re-enactors?" In this part of the country, the woods were full of people whose hobby it was to dress up like their ancestors and play at being soldiers from various eras. They spent thousands of dollars to fit themselves out with clothes and authentic-looking accessories, including reproduction rifles and ammunition.

"Already checked. There are a few guys in the town who do the Civil War thing, but they all have alibis."

"And what does our esteemed superior think makes this an X-File?" I enquired sweetly.

"The victim didn't hear a report, no sound of any kind. 'The woods were as still as death,' he said."

There was a pause while I digested this. "That's it?" I finally demanded.

"Yup." Taking the photos from me, he gathered up the file and rose. "You got anything you have to do at the office?" I shook my head. "Okay. I'll pick you up here at eight tomorrow?"

"Sure." He started to move, and sensing the 'work' part of the visit was over, I decided to broach the 'other' topic that had been left unsaid. "John, I don't want to pressure you, but I was wondering when you might want to try some of those exercises again."

He stopped but did not look at me. "I been pretty busy..." he began, and alarm bells rang in my head. How to approach this? I wasn't used to preaching to the unconverted.

"I understand." I took a deep breath. "John, I told you you might not see a change right away. Please give it a chance."

"Yeah. I'm trying." He stood there like a small boy called before the principal, and I knew he was too polite to make his escape without my permission, since I had initiated this.

"Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded and a few seconds later I was staring at my closed front door and quietly cursing.  
   


 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

   
 

 

I will not smoke I will not smoke I will not smoke I – -

The litany ran through my mind as we whipped down the I-95 toward our destination about a hundred clicks from Washington. I'd had a couple of lapses, most recently during Scully's and my trip to Nowhere, Georgia. Carrying the pack around with me was my sick, masochistic way of building my willpower, and it was working ninety-nine percent of the time. My mother, a steady chain smoker for forty years, had died of complications following the removal of a tumour from her lung last February. It hadn't ever been that constant a habit for me, but I vowed then to give them up. Occasionally, though, the beast raised its head, as it did now when the smell of freshly dried tobacco assaulted us from a processing plant situated near the highway.

I didn't realize I had groaned until Doggett looked over at me. "Tryin' to quit, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah. It's been a little over a year. How did you know?"

"I started smoking when I joined the Corps. Gave it up ten years ago, and I still feel it sometimes."

"Great," I drawled. I reached into my purse and pulled out the nearly-full pack of Morleys, then depressed the power window button. Sticking my right arm out straight, I released the cigarettes into the wind. I looked over at my partner to see him staring at me. "Guess it's the patch for me, then," I told him brightly.

A sign announcing the exit to Fredericksburg caught my eye. The area we were headed to was soaked with blood: within a fifteen-mile radius were the sites of four major battles, two of which, Spotsylvania and The Wilderness, were among the worst of the Civil War in terms of casualties. I'd spent Sunday night on the Internet reading over information on the battles. Before I started into a case involving the paranormal, I tried to get a sense of the place, and in this instance the time in which the events in it occurred. Last night I studied maps of troop movements and read accounts from both sides. They rendered a tale so like a hundred other battles throughout the war, one of confusion, delays, heroism and thousands of terrible, terrible deaths.

"It's too early to check in. You want to visit the victim in the hospital first?"

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "How did you manage to finagle us a hotel? We're only a little over an hour from Washington."

"I pulled a few strings," Doggett admitted. "I hate driving back and forth on the Interstate. This case'll probably only be an overnight anyway." He snuck a glance at me. "And I promised it'd be cheap, so I got us a bed and breakfast. Hope that's OK."

"That's great. I love B&amp;Bs." I paused, wondering how he'd take this. "Do you mind if we see some of the battleground before going to the hospital? I'd like to get a feel for the place first." I didn't elaborate further, but I was pretty sure he knew what I was talking about.

His jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, then he nodded. "Sure. I set up a meeting with the sheriff there at two, but we can meet him at the hospital instead. Maybe you can give him a call. His name and number's in here," he told me, pointing to a black notebook in the center console. I dug out my cell phone and dialed the number. Sheriff Ritchie was quite obliging, and we agreed to meet at the Fredericksburg hospital later on.

Half an hour later we were standing in the middle of Saunders Field, the site of one of the first engagements of the battle. The fighting in and around it had been so fierce that the powder and shot being exchanged caused the brush to catch fire. Wounded men, unable to escape, had been burned alive, their comrades helpless to save them.

One hundred and thirty some odd years later, there weren't many echoes left. The field was already starting to fill with tourists, some reading the information over at the Wilderness Exhibit Shelter, a few standing by the 140th New York monument, one of many regimental markers in the park. I saw one of them reach out and touch the cold stone inscription; a connection made. For my part, I wasn't making any.

Then Doggett touched my arm, and the world exploded. For an instant, I was overwhelmed by noise. My ears were assaulted by a thousand deadly pops and my chest was impacted by the low powerful thudding sound of artillery. My knees buckled and dimly I felt his hand wrap tight around my bare upper arm and hold on firmly, keeping me upright. The wall of sound grew louder. I whipped my head around frantically, but I could see nothing.

"Do you hear that?" I shouted. Through my hazing vision I saw a couple of the tourists turn toward me. "DO YOU HEAR THAT?" I couldn't hear my own voice above the din. Doggett shook his head firmly, his eyes searching mine. He grabbed my other arm to steady me, and over his shoulder I began to make out shapes, and could feel heat licking at my legs. Finally I realized what was happening.

"LET GO!" I yelled, twisting away from his hold violently.

Silence. A half dozen tourists were now staring at us openly, one of them a big burly African-American man who looked like he wanted to rip Doggett a new orifice for whatever horror he was inflicting on me. I didn't feel like trying to explain it, so I shot them a reassuring smile that belied my churning innards. Slowly, they all turned away, though the man continued to keep tabs on us now and then. I silently thanked him on behalf of abused women everywhere.

Doggett stood at a respectful distance from me, arms hanging loosely by his sides. "Are you OK?" he asked quietly after a few moments.

"I will be," I breathed, fighting a wave of nausea.

"What the hell just happened?"

"I'm not sure yet," I murmured evasively. "John, did you hear anything just now?"

"No."

"See anything?" He shook his head. In my weakened state I couldn't keep the impatience from seeping into my voice. "Did you sense anything at *all*?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I thought – I smelled somethin'. But it's gone now."

"What did you smell?"

"It wasn't any one thing. Mostly sulfur."

"What else?"

His eyes roamed over the tourists milling about at a discreet distance. "I thought I smelled blood. And..." He trailed off, and my last shred of patience snapped like a rotten twig.

"Dammit, John," I exhaled vehemently. His gaze locked with mine, startled, then the sharp blue pupils darkened.

His words were staccato, like machine gun bullets. "Shit. Human shit, allright?" Then as swiftly as the anger appeared, it was gone. "Doesn't make any sense," he grumbled.

At first it didn't make sense to me either, but then a vaguely remembered oral history account I had once read sprang into my jumbled thoughts. My heart rate, which had almost slowed to normal, started racing again. "Have you ever been around hundreds of people whose intestines have just been ripped apart by grapeshot and shell fire?"

He stared at me in utter shock for a good five seconds, then started shaking his head slowly as comprehension dawned. "No way. No way – "

"I was there, John, and so were you. Don't deny it."

"Nothing happened, so there's nothin' to deny."

"Well, something happened to me. And it started when you touched me."

He blinked, and his eyes narrowed. "What are you tryin' to say? That I'm some kind of friggin' spook antenna?"

"No. I'm saying that your power is stronger than you think. You can't channel it yet, but when you're in contact with someone who can – "

"I can't do this," he interrupted. I met his gaze defiantly, but I knew he had already made up his mind. The confrontation I hadn't meant to have had suddenly come and gone, and like the soldiers groping through the dense thickets of the Wilderness, I couldn't see my opponent well enough to score a decisive victory. "I'm sorry, Monica. This is all a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me. I know you believe in it, and that's fine for you, and it's good for the X-Files, but I'm only a dumb ol' cracker cop. This just isn't my style." His face showed a mixture of regret and frustration, no doubt a mirror to my own. "I'll see you back at the car. Take all the time you need."

And once again, I was left to curse him, myself and the whole damned situation.

"Advance and retreat," I muttered to no one in particular.

   
   
   
 

Part 2

  
 

After that, the day just got better and better.

Our victim, a William and Mary student by the name of Dave Morgan, was barely coherent. The doctors had him heavily drugged but they were taking him off the meds tomorrow, because it looked like they were going to have to amputate his right leg below the knee and they needed his permission. Once they wore off, he'd still be incoherent, only it would be due to the absence of sedatives rather than the presence of them. What exact difference this made to his power of informed consent I wasn't sure. He'd probably agree to have all four of his limbs whacked off if it meant the pain would stop.

Too bad the poor so-and-so was attending college on a football scholarship.

I approached the third floor waiting area after a quick trip to the hospital snack bar. After an intense clairvoyant experience, I always needed large amounts of Gatorade to restore my equilibrium. Oddly enough, the electrolytes in those kinds of sport drinks worked as well for psychics as they did for marathon runners. I thought idly about offering some to Doggett, but figured he wouldn't appreciate the gesture. He was sitting fresh as the proverbial daisy in one of the vomit-green plastic hospital chairs speaking quietly with Sheriff Ritchie and Morgan's buddy. The tow-headed young man had probably saved his friend's life by calmly stanching the gunshot wound, using his cell phone to call an ambulance and hauling him bodily out of the forest.

As I came nearer, Doggett's whiskey voice washed over me. " – sure you didn't see anything? A flash, a puff of smoke?"

The kid shook his head. "No sir. As I told you, I wasn't concentrating on anything but getting Dave out of there. When I heard him yell, I came running, and then I didn't look around after that."

"Weren't you afraid of whoever had shot him?"

"At the time, I just figured it was a shot from a stray hunting rifle. It never occurred to me that someone might be aiming at us." That cinched it. I'd already placed his accent as Mississippian; now it seemed he was a country boy to boot. What urban-dwelling American has never expected to be a target?

Doggett sighed, then leaned back in the chair, which creaked alarmingly. The sheriff, a gangly man in his early fifties who reminded me of Sam Shepherd, spoke next. "Son, we know you were in there looking for trophies. I already told you the park isn't pressing charges. If you can remember anything – "

The young fellow shook his head sadly, and I could tell he was being completely honest when he murmured, "I wish to God I could, sir. But that's all I know."

"Thanks, Elliott," Doggett rumbled. "Go ahead and visit with Dave if you want. I think I've got all I need." Thanking him, the boy stood and headed back down the hall to ICU. I watched him go, then walked over to Doggett and Ritchie.

"Trophies?" I asked.

Ritchie nodded. "It's killing this park and a hundred other historical battlegrounds. Hikers leave the trails and walk all over the entrenchments, slowly wearing down what's left of the original topography. It's too tempting for some of the less responsible Civil War buffs, especially when bits of uniforms, bullets, even rifles and bone fragments come up out of the soil every year."

"Still?"

He nodded grimly. "There's a lot of debris that gets left behind when one hundred and sixty thousand men come together and try to kill one another."

I aimed a look at my partner. "Tell me about it." I thought I saw him flinch slightly and was inordinately pleased.

"Look," he began, in what I now recognized as his no-more-bullshit voice, "we know this had to have been a reenactor. Probably huntin' out of season, playin' soldier, whatever. Didn't mean to hit the kid, and now he's scared to come forward."

Ritchie exhaled. "It wasn't anybody local. I know all those fellas. They have too much respect for the park and for weapons safety to be trying anything like that."

"A tourist, then. He was out Friday night havin' his own private battle and one of his shots went long."

Ritchie shook his head. "It's not possible for any shot to go long in that forest. Hell, it's so dense in some places you can't see thirty feet in front of you. And even if you could, that was a fairly close-range shot, maybe a couple of hundred feet; it did way too much damage to have been from any further away. Minie balls spend themselves after about two hundred yards, two fifty tops." He dug around in his shirt pocket and fished out an object which he handed to me. The weight and size of it startled me; it wasn't ball-shaped at all, but cylindrical, sloping to a wide, blunt nose about half the diameter of the base.

I turned it over in my palm. "This is a reproduction?"

"Yeah. Got it from a guy in the Wilderness Preservation Society. Ugly, isn't it?"

"It's much heavier than a modern round." I passed it on to Doggett, dropping it into his hand to avoid direct physical contact with him. Even after several hours, I still felt as though an army of ants were performing drill maneuvers over the surface of my skin.

"Fifty-eight caliber," Ritchie told me. "It was designed to kill and to maim, which in that time was pretty much a death sentence anyway. At point-blank range with seventy grains of black powder it'll take your leg right off."

Doggett perked up at that. "There's somethin'. What if he double-charged the rifle? That would've increased the range."

Ritchie chuckled. "Yeah, and it'd make our jobs real easy if he did. 'Cause then all we'd have to do is find a moron with a broken collarbone."

Doggett grunted. "So what you're saying is, somebody took a deliberate potshot at that kid."

"Seems that way."

"Maybe a reenactor who considers it his personal mission to preserve the park?" Both men's gazes swung toward me at my blurted statement. It was the first time Doggett had made eye contact since our little argument, and annoyingly I felt my face heat.

"Could be," mused Ritchie. "I think I'll go back to the barn and search the database for anyone who's been charged with weapons offences using repro or antique firearms. It might get us started."

My partner sprang to his feet. His energy level was really starting to get on my nerves. The three that weren't fried, that is. "I'm gonna go and check out the local hotels. See if any of the staff might have seen anything."

I tried to spring to my feet, but I only made it halfway before slowing dangerously. "Where's the tourist bureau? I think I'll do the same with the RV parks and campgrounds."

Doggett's gaze flicked over me, then returned to Ritchie. "When you want to regroup?"

"Tomorrow morning? About ten?"

"Okay." And with a curt nod to me, he was gone. No plans for the two of us to meet later, nothing.

"You kids have a spat?" the sheriff enquired laconically. I whirled around to face him, ready for battle, but there was no malice in his expression. Usually, such questions from fellow cops were more crudely worded and meant to belittle the work of the women they addressed. I'd been classified as a camp follower or comfort woman too many times to count. But Ritchie just appeared genuinely interested, like a doting uncle.

"In a manner of speaking," I admitted drily.

"Yeah, well, it's none of my business, Agent Reyes, but your partner is running from something. And I've usually found it's better if cops run toward something instead of away from it. They tend to solve more crimes that way."

I blinked at him, momentarily startled by his perception. "He's running, all right," I finally acknowledged. "But he's running from himself."

Ritchie nodded. "He's gonna need some of that Gatorade, then."  
   
 

 

    
    
    
    
 

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I was going to wait exactly five more minutes.

This time, when I told myself this, I meant it. The other six times didn't count.

It was past ten o'clock and I was past antsy and way past restless. The stench of stale cigarette smoke and staler criminal that permeated the unmarked beater Ritchie had loaned me was still in my nostrils. I had conducted a fruitless tour of the area's campgrounds til around eight, then checked back at the B&amp;B to see if Doggett had returned – no such luck – and headed out again to enjoy a nice meal at a nearby Greek restaurant I had seen on the way in. One chicken souvlaki and salad and a cup of sludgelike but delicious coffee later I was ricocheting around my room getting changed for my nightly excursion. The park signs had warned against poison ivy and ticks and recommended the proper attire, so here I was dressed in my shit-kicking boots, cuffs of my khakis tucked into my socks, waiting like Sandra Dee for my man to show up. I paced the spacious suite from end to end, cursing the faux Victorian decor and the frilly pillow shams in time to the thudding of my soles on the hardwood floors.

Time was up. I grabbed my cell phone and punched the speed dial. He picked up on the second ring.

"Doggett, where the hell are you?" I barked before he had time to speak.

A knock sounded at my door, nearly vaulting me out of my skin.

"I'll give you three guesses," he drawled. He tried to cover it most of the time, but twelve hours in Virginia and the man was drawling. I prayed for this case to end soon.

Putting away the phone, I assumed my best hands-on-hips stance. "Door's open."

He entered with a half-smile which disappeared when he saw my clothing. "Where're you goin'?"

"You mean we, Lone Ranger. I'd like to take a look at the crime scene."

"Now?" For a couple of seconds I actually felt sorry for him. He looked exhausted, and I was willing to bet his supper had been a hastily eaten burger. Then I remembered his annoyingly boundless energy earlier in the day and my heart hardened.

"No, it doesn't have to be this minute, but I'd like to go tonight if that's at all possible. If you want to take a shower and get changed, I don't mind waiting." My peace offering wasn't completely altruistic; his five o'clock shadow lent him an appealingly rumpled air that put a crimp in my equilibrium and I hoped he would shave as well.

"OK," he breathed, giving in with stunningly little resistance. "If it'll wrap this up sooner, I'm for it. Give me about a half an hour."

When he left, I paced some more to mask the sound of the shower down the hall.

 

    
    
    
    
 

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"Mind telling me what we're looking for?"

Doggett's voice was more than a little irritated, no doubt due to my request that he not use his flashlight until absolutely necessary. I picked my way easily over tree roots and around huge rocks to the light of the full moon; all that hiking and backpacking with my fellow granola-eaters had sharpened my reflexes. My partner, however, was too many years removed from the country, as the steady stream of muttering, not to mention the odd sound of impact with various natural objects, would indicate. I smiled evilly and murmured, "You got soft while you were with the jarheads. I bet they gave you guys the latest in night-vision goggles, didn't they?"

"My eyesight starts to give out after I've been up for eighteen hours, that's all. Nothin' serious. Now would you answer my question?"

"We're looking for answers," I told him sweetly.

"That's great. I appreciate your friggin' candour."

I deftly side-stepped a large fallen branch, while beside me Doggett blundered into it and almost tripped. "I honestly can't tell you what we're looking for. If I could, this case would be solved and you'd be in bed, snoring happily. I had a feeling we'd find something here tonight, something important. But you'd already reached your mumbo-jumbo threshold for today, so I didn't want to go into the details with you."

He stopped walking, and I turned to face him. His eyes were washed to a silver grey colour in the moonlight. "Listen, I'm sorry I walked off earlier. It wasn't right to leave you like that. I just – I had to clear my head, y'know?"

Recovering from the shock of his sudden apology as quickly as possible, I ventured softly, "I wish I could say I did know, John, but I've always been aware I had this gift. It never seemed as strange to me as it does to you now. But I can imagine it must be – unsettling."

Doggett's gaze roamed the woods around us. There wasn't a sound to be heard. "That's one way of puttin' it." He chuckled softly, enjoying a private joke. "The hell of it is, I – " His words trailed off and I watched as his features transformed from relaxed to tense, as if he were listening to something intently.

"DOWN!" The command was given at the same time I felt his hand grab my shoulder and jerk me toward the ground. I didn't need any more prompting than that; a half second later and I was kissing the forest floor.

A half second after that, I heard the sharp crack of something hitting the tree trunk behind us, as if a giant had just struck it a heavy blow with a hammer. Doggett's hand landed again, this time on my arm, and I scurried with him to the large rock that mercifully sat about twenty feet to our left. My Sig was out of its holster by the time I was halfway there.

Silently, he motioned in the direction from which the shot had come. I nodded. Leaning close, he whispered in my ear. "There's another rock about forty feet closer to their position. Get ready to cover me."

"How do you know where they are?" I whispered back. "And how do you know there's more than one of them?"

"I heard talking right before the shot," he returned, his whisper a bit impatient now.

My heart began a slow pounding. "Did you hear gunfire?"

"Yeah, didn't you?" Then his eyes locked with mine, and he knew.

"John, give me your hand," I murmured softly. "Please."

He stared at me for a long moment, then at my proffered palm. Finally I felt his warm hand slide into mine, and simultaneously I felt the world expand and stretch around me.

Just as if a needle had set down on a phonograph, the voices sprang into my consciousness. " – don't think I hit 'em."

"Those weren't no officers, I tell ya," grumbled another.

"Don't go gettin' soft on us now, Will-yaaam," a third replied, sarcastically drawing out the man's name.

"Thought we didn't want any more killing, is all," the second, obviously William, answered back defensively.

Hand still clutching his for dear life, I looked over at my partner, who was clearly champing at the bit. "John," I began quietly, "I don't want to tell you what to do, but if you're about to yell 'Federal agents' at the top of your lungs, I'd rather you didn't. Somehow I doubt that's going to impress them favourably."

"I'm open to suggestions," Doggett whispered. I noted his hand was gripping mine almost as tightly.

"I'd like you to tell them you're a civilian, and that they've just fired on a woman."

"What will that get us?"

"The chance to talk to them, I think." Pausing for qualification, I added, "If we can reach them."

I watched Doggett turn this over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons, raising and discarding questions he knew couldn't be answered. Finally, he nodded once, an economical acknowledgment and expression of his trust.

"This is John Doggett," he called out distinctly. "Don't shoot. There's a woman with me."

My heart hammered slowly and noisily, one, two, three. Then a returning shout: "How do we know there's a woman there?"

"My name is Monica Johnson," I told them, hastily choosing an ethnically neutral surname. "Please don't shoot. My – brother-in-law is unarmed." I felt Doggett staring at me, and I turned toward him swiftly. "You're not going to like this."

His brow was already furrowed. "Yeah. Will they search you, d'you think?"

"Probably not. I'll keep mine if you want."

"Oh, I definitely want." He laid his Sig on the ground and covered it lightly with a few dry leaves.

"Doggett!" This from the man I had heard speak first. "Come forward, and bring Miz Johnson."

We breathed out together, and he cast a look at our joined hands, then raised his eyes to mine. "Mind telling me what we're walkin' into here?"

Meeting his gaze, I was only half joking when I answered, "I have a feeling it just might be the mouth of Hell."

"No problem, then," he growled, pulling me to my feet. "I've been there before."

  
   
   
   
 

Part 3

  
 

The smell was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I'd been around more dead bodies than I cared to think about, but I had never known the all-encompassing presence of rotting human flesh which assailed my senses as soon as we went from here to there. That was when I knew with certainty that the half-formed theories which had been rattling around in my brain for the past twenty-four hours had some validity. Now if I could only keep from losing the souvlaki I had eaten earlier, everything would be fine.

Well, not precisely fine. The man who had probably shouted at us earlier was now visible to me, and he was pointing a deadly-looking museum piece in Doggett's and my direction. Two more stood slightly behind him, presumably the other men we had heard. Their faces were unshaven and haggard, their clothes dirty and disheveled, but from this distance in the dark it was impossible to make out colours. I experimented with a looser grip on my partner's hand, and experienced no loss of image or sensation – unfortunate in some respects, but it was as I had suspected. I didn't need his help any longer to focus on the other world, because we were smack dab in the middle of it. I couldn't make it go away now if I wanted to. Hopefully there would be some sort of road back when we needed it.

Momentary panic set in then, and as I clamped down on it I got a ridiculous image of myself in blonde pigtails, tripping merrily through the forest with Doggett. "Hey, Hansel," I whispered, slowing my pace. "You got any candy bars or other shiny objects on you?"

"There's a pack of Juicy Fruit in my pocket, I think. Why?"

Juicy Fruit. Who would've thought? "We may need a bread crumb later. I think if you reach for it, though, that nice man will blow a large hole in you, so I'd better do it." My gaze strayed toward his jeans. "Right or left?"

"That's my *shirt* pocket, Monica."

I cleared my throat. "Right. OK."

"Keep moving!" shouted one of the men.

There was my opportunity. Throwing one arm around Doggett's neck, I let out a terrified wail. He took my lead, twisting his left side away from them as I deftly snagged the gum and dropped it on the ground beside us. His arms came up in a show of calming me, and after a few moments in which I "collected" myself, we resumed walking.

"Hands where I can see them," barked the man with the rifle, interrupting a question I probably couldn't have answered anyway.

"I'm not armed," Doggett, truthful as always, declared.

"Caleb, for God's sake," grumbled one of the men behind the shooter, and I recognized William's voice. He was thin, too thin, his unkempt uniform hanging off his limbs, his face sporting a sharply defined nose and definite New England features. Deciding to keep up the nervous female act to appeal to the more chivalrous among them, I clutched at Doggett's arm. "John, I'm so frightened. Please tell him to lower the gun."

Mercifully, Caleb lowered the barrel of the rifle so that it was no longer pointed at Doggett's centre of mass. "Whut kind of woman is that?" he grunted, and my mind scrambled for an explanation for my attire and hairstyle. It didn't help that in my hiking gear I was dressed mannishly even for my century. But before I could babble a half-baked excuse, my partner startled me with a response.

"If you know a safer way for a lady to travel over ground occupied by thousands of soldiers, I'd like to hear it," growled Doggett, who at that instant looked every inch the gentleman defending a family member of the weaker sex. A couple of the men shifted uncomfortably at the mention of womanly virtue in front of an actual woman, then Caleb broke his military stance and turned, motioning us to follow. I breathed out slowly: we had passed.

The clearing into which we entered was occupied by about thirty or forty men in various states from grievously wounded to merely exhausted. Some tended their friends, others slept, and a few sat apart from the rest and sang in lowered tones while one of them strummed a guitar. What struck me right away was the fact that these men belonged to both sides, or at least they had. Stealing a glance at Doggett, I mouthed "Deserters" at him. He nodded as if he had already surmised as much.

Caleb and the others led us to a small campfire where he indicated we should sit. I tried to be as dainty as possible in settling myself on the ground, but it was a difficult state to achieve in hiking boots. A few of the more alert among the men had noticed I was a female and I wondered whether my clothing would mollify or inflame soldiers of a hundred and forty years ago. After all, the concept that women had legs was usually enough to cause a spontaneous erection in Victorian times. As I felt the weight of several pairs of eyes settle on me, I hoped this question would remain academic.

"So, speak. Where are you from and where are you headed?" I noted from this longer string of gruff yet more softly-spoken words that Caleb was probably German and most likely foreign-born. He was stocky, with a considerable mustache, but was otherwise clean-shaven. An old scar, probably from a Bowie knife, ran up the back of his right hand and disappeared under the cuff of his jacket. His shoulder flashes indicated he had been with the 1st Pennsylvania Artillery and he carried sergeant's stripes.

I could tell Doggett was not going to leap in this time, so I ventured my hastily concocted story. "We're from New York City. John – my sister's husband – agreed to accompany me when we learned my husband had been wounded." Keep it simple, I thought. I knew a fair bit about New York and Doggett knew much more. I only prayed he was familiar enough with history to avoid mention of any obvious anachronisms, like the "A" Train or the Statue of Liberty.

"How come you was comin' up from the south, then?" asked the third and as yet unidentified man. His accent and the grayish-brown cast of his jacket marked him as a Confederate.

"Well, we did get a little turned around," I admitted, smiling in what I hoped was a demure fashion. "John is a wonderful merchant, but his woodsman's skills are out of practice, I'm afraid." A couple of the men chuckled at this and I sensed Doggett shift beside me.

"Only one problem," Johnny Reb persisted, killing the moment of levity. "You ain't from New York. I got a cousin in Georgia. He sounds a powerful lot like you do." I muffled an unladylike curse. I had forgotten that these men were much more conscious of regional differences than Americans are today. It was as though each one of them was a living, breathing Henry Higgins.

"I was born in Georgia," Doggett conceded without batting an eye. "Haven't been back in more'n twenty years. Lit out on a ship headed north when I was sixteen. Five years later, I had my own business." Jesus, I thought. Horatio Alger's Ragged Dick meets Huck Finn. Luckily, neither of those books had been written yet so they wouldn't spot the cliché.

"Whut kinda business?" enquired Caleb.

"I run a saloon in the Bowery," Doggett deadpanned before I had a chance to answer. Surprised by his historical knowledge, I narrowed my eyes disapprovingly at him for having mentioned the family shame.

William snorted. "Keepin' those Mic bastards in liquor, are ya?"

"My mother is Irish-American." Doggett's voice was low and deceptively calm. There was a quietly manic aspect to the man that presented itself now and then, and even though I suspected most of it this time was a show for Caleb's benefit, I suppressed a shiver when I caught the look in his ice-blue eyes.

"Didn't mean anythin' by it," mumbled a cowed William, who suddenly found his battered boots fascinating.

Caleb nodded solemnly, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward. It seemed as if Doggett had passed yet another test. "Sehre güt. But do not make the mistake, John Doggett, of thinking there will ever be such a thing as Irish-Americans or Deutsche-Americans. To them, we will always be foreigners." Then he abruptly turned his attention to me. "Your husband, madam. What regiment was he with?"

Here we go. "The 140th New York." I remembered from the Wilderness history I had read that the regiment had been Zouaves, and I didn't see any of the distinctive, brightly coloured uniforms among the deserters.

Caleb shook his head. "There is no one here from the 140th." I tried not to let the relief show on my face. "We know the battle has moved on to the southeast – "

"Spotsylvania," interjected the Confederate.

" – and there is a Union field hospital, or slaughterhouse, to the northeast, about ten miles from here. You are welcome to stay here this night and share our fire. I make my promise that no harm will come to you."

Actually, I silently amended, my Sig will make sure of that, but I thanked him sweetly. "We appreciate your offer, but we must travel by night, so we will be leaving shortly." I made a gesture which included the makeshift camp. "Sergeant, what will become of these poor men?"

"We will stay until our wounded are well enough to leave or until they are no longer feeling pain. Then we will scatter to the winds. Some will survive. Others will be caught and shot as cowards. Most will never see their homes or families again, whether they live or die."

"And is that how you see yourselves?" I asked quietly. "As cowards?" I knew I was testing the limits of Caleb's fragile tolerance, but I couldn't resist this incredible chance I had been given.

Caleb sighed, and other men who had been listening to our little group drew nearer. "I cannot speak for anyone else. I have fought for two years. Bull Run. The Wilderness. Gettysburg. The Wilderness again. I have seen the same thing over and over until this time I see a dozen of my men roasted alive in a brush fire. One of them I pulled out and he died in my arms. The others screamed for me to save them." His eyes focused at some spot in the far distance. "I will not sleep very much for the rest of my life, I think. Their screams are very loud." His gaze swung toward me and pinned me like a butterfly in a glass case. "After two years of moving forward like a good soldier, I walked away. My feet and my heart made the decision, my head did not. I do not know if this makes me a coward. What do you think, Miz Johnson?"

"I think I have no right to judge a person who has been where you have been." I could feel Doggett's presence beside me and I realized I wasn't only speaking to Caleb and his comrades. "I think you have endured what no man should be forced to endure. I don't blame any of you for the decisions you have made." At the edges of the firelight, I could see a couple of the men take off their caps, as if they were in the presence of a Father Confessor, a granter of absolution. I was reminded of the Victorian concept of women as more virtuous, more perfect than men. We couldn't vote, go to medical school or do a hundred other things I took for granted, but I could be put on a pedestal as the true North of their moral compass.

"Mary!" The near-hysterical shout pierced the air around us, breaking the spell. "Mary, is that you, sweet?"

The Confederate shook his head. "Damn. He's gettin' worse." He told Caleb, "Must've heard Miz Johnson's voice."

"His wife?" I asked. The Southerner nodded. "Who is he?"

I could see him pause for a moment, as if weighing whether the release of information would do his friend any harm. "Jacob Campbell," he finally told me. "He's – he was – my lieutenant."

I was already on my feet. Starting toward the sound of the fading cries, I felt a hand on my arm. "Monica," Doggett warned. I looked down at him and something in my eyes must have pacified him, for after a moment he sighed, "OK," and rose to accompany me.

"Uh, ma'am, I don't think you want to be doin' that," began the Confederate.

"What is your name, sir?" I asked him. I was tired of thinking of him as 'the Confederate.'

"Jedediah Thorne, ma'am."

"Well, Jedediah, I can assure you I have witnessed much worse – in my day."

"He's got the cholera, Miz Johnson," protested William. "It ain't pretty."

"I have tended cholera victims in New York," I countered, and when no more arguments were forthcoming, I strode forward.

Of course, there weren't a lot of cholera outbreaks in NYC these days, but I was vaguely familiar with the disease and its symptoms. It was caused by unsanitary conditions, and to say that conditions among Civil War armies were unsanitary was like saying Hitler had been a little ill-tempered. Thousands of men died from such diseases in the camps and after battles when they drank from contaminated water sources. Hardly a medical expert, I could nevertheless tell the minute I saw Jacob Campbell that he was descending into a state of shock. He was beginning to shiver uncontrollably and his skin was clammy when I grasped his hand.

"Jacob." I squatted beside him. His eyes swung toward me, his gaze fixed on my face but unseeing.

"Mary. You came. I knew you would come."

"Yes, Jacob. I'm here." My chest felt tight. There was something wrong here. I'd been around people who were, for want of a less melodramatic term, marked for death, and this man bore all the signs. But at the same time, I felt the presence of another possibility, another path. It was as if there were two Jacobs holding my hand.

"Have you come to take me home, Mary?" I looked up at Jedediah questioningly.

"Mobile," he whispered.

"Yes. We'll be going home to Mobile soon." I touched my other hand to his forehead to try to increase the contact, to tell me whether he was meant to live or die, but there was nothing more. Then I reached out blindly for Doggett. "John, it's so terrible," I breathed shakily, hoping he'd take the hint. He did; a moment later his warm fingers, such a contrast to Campbell's, slid into mine. And at that instant, I knew.

Doggett wasn't going to like this.

"Sleep now, Jacob. You'll be home before long." Stroking the soldier's forehead, I gently closed his eyes. He drew in a long, shuddering breath, then smiled faintly. When his breathing became as normal as it was likely to get, I eased my hand from his grip. He stirred, then relaxed.

Straightening, I made eye contact with Doggett, who nodded. "We should get going, Monica. We have a lot of ground to cover before daylight."

"Yes, John," I simpered. Turning toward Caleb and the others, I smiled. "I wish you all well. If we have the chance, we may return with – provisions for you."

"That's kind of you, ma'am, but you've done enough." Jedediah smiled back, bobbing his head. A connection made, at last. I felt the force, at that moment, of the strangeness of it all. "That was a good thing you did, helpin' a man you had no duty to help."

"You're wrong there, Jedediah. I feel a – particular responsibility to Lieutenant Campbell. He and my husband – well, they are both in a similar predicament."

"We understand, Monica," John rumbled, clearly itching to be on his way. He shook each of the men's hands in turn. "The best of luck to all of you."

It took us several hours to find the portal again, as we had been forced to head northeast to make it appear as though we were walking to the Union hospital. We followed a circuitous route around the camp aided by my pocket compass, but with no landmarks we recognized it was rough going. It was well after daylight before we came upon Doggett's blessed pack of gum, and another half hour before we stumbled through the opening.

"Thank God," exulted Doggett as our lungs took in great gulps of fresh, untainted air.

"I was beginning to wonder, myself," I breathed, annoyed to feel my knees weaken with relief. To hell with the ticks. This time, I literally kissed the forest floor.

"Wonder what time it is?" He scanned the sky, I imagined to check the position of the sun, but steel-coloured clouds obstructed his view.

My hand was cramped and sore from holding his in our search for the opening and I shook the circulation back into it. "As long as it's sometime after 1864, I could care less."

"I hope it's a little closer than that." Doggett strode over to our rock refuge of the night before and started digging around in the underbrush. After a minute that stretched to an eon, I saw his eyes close, then with a flourish he hoisted his regulation Sig.

I released the breath I'd been holding and began laughing foolishly. "This is the only way to time travel," I grinned. "I'm going to recommend this temporal rift to all my friends."

"Yeah," drawled Doggett, "but I never got my complimentary bag of honey-roasted peanuts."

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
 

At eight that morning we were sitting in the dining room of the cozy little B&amp;B while our hostess flitted about refilling coffee cups and dishing out massive quantities of eggs and bacon. Her name was Blossom and although, as she had confided to me last night, she had been born and raised on a hippie commune, there was no muesli served at her breakfasts. She still had nightmares about the stuff. No, her fare was hearty, greasy and definitely Southern. And after traipsing though the woods all night, I had to admit my veins were ready for grease.

Doggett and I hadn't spoken much about our experience after we left the camp, focused as we had been on finding our way home. Even after returning, however, he had remained oddly quiet, as if he were trying to sort and classify the night's events, fit a square peg into the round hole of his world view. I had no desire to push him, but I wanted to get to him before he'd explained it all away, and time was of the essence, so to speak.

"John," I began softly. He regarded me over the rim of his coffee mug, his eyebrows raising slightly. "You haven't said much since we – got back."

"What can I say?" he murmured, pitching his voice below the din of the room. "It's not every day I go back in time. I've just been tryin' to figure out how it's even possible. I mean, are there – holes – like that all over the place?"

"I don't think so," I told him, shaking my head and smiling politely when I saw Blossom advancing on me with a mountain of griddle cakes. She lost the spring in her step, but recovered it when the man at the next table forked three onto his plate. "I'm not an expert in temporal mechanics," I continued. "But there's a theory that suggests these rips occur at a time of – imbalance, I suppose is the best term for it –  in the life cycle."

Doggett frowned. "The 'life cycle'?"

"Many cultures represent their world – and time itself – as a circle, neverending, flowing in both directions. Death follows life, but life also follows death. They seek one another out. Hence plagues coming after population explosions, baby booms coming after wars."

"So you're sayin' this 'rip' happened because of the battle? Because there was too much death? Then how come they don't happen more often?"

"This wasn't just any battle. The area around us had already seen several major engagements and dozens of skirmishes. The balance had to be restored by opening a window to another time, when life had returned to this place." I cut off another hunk of Canadian bacon. "Or it could just be an enchanted forest. We'll never know for sure."

Doggett huffed. "Sounds like Shirley MacLaine's Theory of Relativity, but I suppose it's as good an explanation as any." He drained the rest of his coffee, then ran a hand over his eyes. "I wish I could try out that bed upstairs, but we're meeting with Ritchie at ten. How do we tell him we found the perp but he's going to be kinda hard to arrest because he's been dead a hundred years?"

I breathed in. Out. In. Get on with it. "Uh, about that meeting. Do you suppose we could put it off for a while?"

"Why? You want a cat nap, too?"

My gaze locked with his. "No. Because we have to go back to save Jacob Campbell's life."

  
   
   
   
 

Part 4

  

 

I hadn't meant to be so blunt. I'd hoped to lead up to it gradually. But deep down I knew there was little time for gradual measures.

Doggett stared at me for several seconds after my announcement. "We have to – what?"

"Save Jacob Campbell."

"That's what I thought you said."

"It's going to be easier than you think. You see, the biggest danger with cholera is dehydration. I put in a call to the Fredericksburg hospital when we got back just now. I posed as a travel reporter so my questions wouldn't seem so strange, and I found out just what he needs."

Blue eyes locked with mine. "Are you telling me you want us to go back there after everything we just went through to get out?"

I stared him down. "A man's life is at stake."

That set him back. A muscle twitched in his jaw, then he muttered, "Lots of men died in the Civil War."

"But not this one." He frowned at me, and I took a deep breath. Mumbo-jumbo time. "Please hear me out before you close your mind. When I was touching Jacob, I sensed he was going to die, but also that he wasn't. I've never experienced that kind of duality before. Then when you held my hand, I knew he was meant to live. But there is no way that's going to happen unless we do something."

"Why do you think you got this – dual – feeling from him?"

Somewhere in the back of my brain it struck me that he hadn't challenged my perceptions, but the front part was too preoccupied to consider it further. "I'm not sure. Maybe the shooting of Dave Morgan caused some sort of reaction..."

"Or maybe our presence there screwed things up," Doggett finished for me. "Did you think of that? And if we go back, we could start a whole friggin' chain of reactions that never ends."

That possibility hadn't occurred to me. I mulled it over for a moment. "We could," I admitted. "But if we've upset the balance, it's our responsibility to restore it."

Doggett sighed heavily. "Monica, you obviously feel strongly about this and I understand that. I was there, too. But we can't just go off half-cocked until we've had a chance to think this thing through."

"Listen to me. We don't have that luxury. We've seen that time passes at the same rate on either side of the portal. After talking with the doctor earlier, I believe Jacob could have days left, or he could have hours. We could plan this thing literally to death. And I'm tired of always presiding over death." His expression became stricken, and I knew exactly which ghost I was summoning then. But I couldn't seem to shut myself up. "John, I don't blame you for wanting to throw away this gift we have. After having a chance to see it through your eyes, I'm getting sick of it myself. I realized that we're usually too damn late to do any good. It's not that often we get there in time. I want to get there this time."

He didn't say a word, just rose from the table and walked out of the room. I'm not sure how long I sat there, staring at nothing. My body felt big, awkward, my limbs weighed down. I gripped the arms of the chair until my hands grew cold, trying to keep from running upstairs. And how would that help anything? To him, I was a vulture, picking at his bones.

Finally he was standing in front of me. He had put on his hiking boots again. "OK. I'm ready." As I stood, before he had a chance to turn away from me, I saw that his eyes were rimmed in red. I blinked once, twice, then moved to follow him.

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
   
 

"It's Miz Johnson!"

The welcoming shout came from Jedediah, whose white teeth stood out plainly in his dirt-streaked face. It struck me now, seeing him in the daylight, that he couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen. What a godforsaken hell this was.

Caleb got up from his place by the side of one of the wounded and walked toward us. "You have returned quickly. Did you reach the hospital?"

"No, we didn't," Doggett admitted.

"What's all that, then?" Jedediah asked, pointing to the large number of bags we had set on the ground around us.

"It's what we need to help Lieutenant Campbell," I told him softly. "Jedediah, Caleb, we weren't being entirely honest with you last night. And we're not going to be entirely honest with you now. You have no reason to trust us. But I can tell you truthfully it's very important to us Jacob Campbell recovers, and I can tell you truthfully he's not going to do it without us."

The Union soldier and the Confederate stared at us for several long moments, then looked at one another. Caleb turned back to me and shook his head. "I think we knew you weren't who you said you were. It didn't really matter to us. We will all have to be storytellers soon, why not learn the language of tall tales? But when you sat with him last night, this part I saw was true." He gestured to where Campbell lay, his arms and legs thrashing weakly. "Do what you wish. But I fear you may be too late."

Doggett made a sound I didn't recognize as human, then growled, "Not this time, goddammit."

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
 

Doggett took charge right away, following the advice we had been given by the doctor at the Fredericksburg hospital. A young intern, he had been quite excited about the prospect of being quoted in a high-profile travel magazine. I felt a twinge of guilt at that, but letting him suspect there might be a cholera outbreak within the U.S. would have set off every alarm they had down at the Centers for Disease Control. This way, we could get the supplies we needed, no questions asked.

First, Doggett cleaned Jacob up with disinfectant and hot water and wrapped him in the dry, warm clothing and blankets we had brought. The soldiers watched in silence as he then set up a small, waterproof tent made of a material none of them had ever seen before, nor would ever see again. Meanwhile, I started mixing a packet of Oral Rehydration Solution the doctor had provided us for 'our Latin American trip', coupled with some of the water purification tablets we had bought at the local Wal-Mart. The solution was used to treat dehydration caused by cholera and other intestinal infections throughout the world, and contained important sugars and salts the body lost with severe diarrhea and vomiting. I was worried, though, that Campbell might have reached the point where only an I.V. would be able to restore his fluid levels, and told Doggett my concern.

"If he can keep it down more'n a couple of hours, it'll at least have done him some good," he replied gruffly. Storm clouds threatened, and we enlisted the help of Jedediah and Caleb to get our charge into the tent. The two of us huddled nearby through the night, our rain slickers getting a workout in the downpour. Luckily, I had thought to grab a few cheap metal buckets on our shopping spree, and they collected clean, untainted rainwater while the storm lasted. There was no sense in anyone else getting cholera on our watch.

At about six a.m., Doggett checked on Lieutenant Campbell, as he had done every hour on the hour since we began. His face was drawn as he emerged from the tent. "What is it?" I asked in a hushed voice, fearing the worst.

He ran a hand over his damp hair. "I dunno. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, but I'm not a doctor."

"No, you're not," I mused, "but you do have other resources." Easing my way into the tent, I sat down beside Jacob and grasped his hand. I held out my other hand to Doggett and for the first time he took it without hesitation.

There was no ambiguity now. "Can you feel it?" I whispered.

"No."

"Try."

Several seconds passed. "He's going to make it, isn't he?"

"You felt it," I breathed. Finally, he had taken his first step in the journey. I opened my eyes and smiled up at him.

His ice-blue gaze held a glint of fire and mischief as he grinned openly at me. "Nah. But I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance."

Releasing Campbell's hand carefully, I crawled out of the tent and rose to my full height. Above me, the clouds were swiftly dispersing as the sun warmed the earth. Doggett feigned fear at my relentless advance, then a spark of real apprehension appeared when I picked up one of the half-full rainwater buckets. As I broke into a run and he took to his heels, I could hear him yell, "What is it with you women and water?"

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
 

We stayed three days and nights, until Jacob was well enough to start eating some solid foods. He had recovered quickly with the help of the solution and our other modern goodies. We passed out multivitamins not only to him but to anyone else who would take them, and Doggett tried to explain the importance of boiling their drinking water from now on. I knew this last would probably have little effect; if the commanders of the Armies of the Potomac and Northern Virginia hadn't been able to enforce the minimum standards of hygiene, I doubted a lone time traveller would make a dent. But then, we weren't here to make a large dent. And if we stayed much longer, we would begin to cause the chain reactions Doggett had mentioned.

"We'd better get going." John snapped his head up at my softly-voiced statement. He had been watching at a distance as William and a couple of his buddies said their farewells to the other men in the camp. They were well enough to travel and off to seek their uncertain future.

"Yeah." He turned back to the group, who waved at us. We waved back. "Camp's breaking up."

Resisting an urge to rest my hand on his shoulder, I ventured, "You miss the military life, don't you?" I swept my arm in a circle. "The camaraderie, I mean."

"Sometimes. Things were a lot simpler then. But nothing's going to be simple for these guys once they leave here."

"They're headed for a new season." I could feel Doggett turn to look at me. "A friend of mine in New Orleans speaks of the stages of people's lives corresponding to certain seasons of the year. Not in the sense of your age, but in the sense of the forces at work in your life at that point. Each season has its own characteristics, its own pros and cons."

"What's your season?" He treated me to a lopsided smile. "If that's not too personal a question."

"Right now?" I thought about it for a few seconds. "Spring, I think. It's a time for new beginnings and growth, but also rushing water, dangerous currents."

He nodded, then his smile faded. "What's mine?" His gaze was intense, as if something inside him was waiting to be released by the answer.

My mind tangled into a knot. I willed it to unravel. "I'd have to say yours was Indian summer. If I remember it right, it's a deceptive time. Everything appears peaceful on the surface, but change lies just below, great change. It's also the time of greatest energy, the storm season, and the season of the first harvests." My eyes locked with his. "It's both a beginning and an ending."

We breathed together for several moments. Then he nodded. "OK. I'll take that."

"Miz Johnson!" Caleb called as he marched toward us. "Jedediah tells me you're leaving."

"Yes, I think we've done what we came to do," I agreed.

"We will remember you both."

"As we will you." I was surprised to find tears welling in my eyes. Banishing them with a sharply drawn breath, I asked, "Caleb, will you make us a promise? It will seem small, but it is extremely important."

"Yes, whatever you ask."

"We're going to leave some of our provisions behind for Lieutenant Campbell. When they are used up, we need you to bury the containers as deep as you can. None must be left unburied."

"This I will do." He took our hands in his, and raised mine to his lips for a kiss. "Go with God, John and Monica."

 

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
   
   
 

The following Monday, we were back in the office as if nothing had happened. The boss raised a couple of eyebrows at the whopper we told to explain why we were incommunicado for several days. I think from all the coquettish smiles he directed at Doggett during the briefing, he figured my partner had spent every minute of the lost time rogering me, but good. I half expected to be sent out of the room at some point so he could get the play-by-play and slap Doggett's ass with a towel.

At any rate, I had been away that afternoon getting my annual physical so I missed the next assignment meeting. When I returned around two, Doggett was sitting at his desk poring over the file.

"Don't tell me. It's another one," I intoned dramatically, placing my hand to my forehead. He looked up at me then, and I saw his eyes were rimmed in red. Oh God.

"What is it?" My voice dropped to a whisper.

His mouth twitched. Then he began laughing. Really laughing. And I realized John Doggett's laughter was a sound I'd never heard. "If we ever run outta cases," he told me as he fought for air, "we can find that portal and make some more work for ourselves."

I strode over to him and peered over his shoulder at the report. "The Wilderness *again*?"

"Archaeological dig found some interesting items." He fished out a photo and handed it to me. "They were crushed and deteriorated, and the labels were faded, but they were definitely – "

" – Gatorade bottles," I finished. "But they can't think – "

"Well, it'd be explainable, except for the letter they found in one of 'em," he grinned, handing me another photo. I sat in the chair beside him and began to read.

"'To the merciful angels of the Wilderness: I have no words to thank you for what you have done, but I cannot stop my pen from trying to capture my feelings. You will always be in my thoughts and in my heart as a pure example of God's light, which resides in all of us. My children will know of your deeds, as will their children. In the midst of all this death, you served life, and for that you will not be forgotten. Yours always, Jacob Campbell.'" The bottom of the letter was a little out of focus, and I squinted to read it. "'P.S. I believe the Fruit Punch was my favourite.'"

We exchanged looks, and for the first time since starting here on the X-Files, it seemed to me that we were truly in synch with one another. Maybe, just maybe this partnership would work out after all. But I could worry more about that later.

For now, our laughter came together and filled the room.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Reference to murder of child.
> 
>  
> 
> Sources and Thanks: I'd like to credit some of the wonderful sites that helped this story be a bit more authentic, particularly the Civil War sites. Most are unfortunately now defunct, but [The Battle of the Wilderness Official Records and Battle Description](http://www.civilwarhome.com/wildernessor.htm) is still with us.
> 
> The book _Brothers_ In Arms by William C. Davis is an excellent informal social history of the life of the Civil War soldier.
> 
> The information on cholera came from the Centers for Disease Control site. The Gatorade is strictly my idea, though; I have no idea if it will actually work on a person with a severe illness like cholera. Don't be suin' me or the CDC if you think you can get medical information from an XF story, 'kay?
> 
> Thanks are due to the wonderful people who took time to write me a note about my story. And last but definitely not least, I'd like to thank my personal ballistics and weaponry source, Jim Hubley, who helped me immensely with issues involving guns, range, wounds, and other Civil War questions. Any remaining errors are mine.
> 
>  
> 
> First published c. 2001.


End file.
